Gregory is a cynical homicide detective married to his job—a dedication that already cost him his marriage. Living alone in a cramped apartment, his only post-shift company is a bottle of vodka and a buzzing TV. But everything changes the night he rescues a sleek, midnight-black stray cat from a gang of neighborhood punks. Naming her Murka, Gregory jokingly treats her more like a roommate than a pet, sharing his dinners and his thoughts. But when he starts waking up to a clean apartment, washed dishes, and a mysterious shadow pacing his kitchen, he wonders if he’s finally losing his mind. The truth, however, is far more magical. It turns out that treating a creature with genuine human kindness is exactly what it takes to shatter a two-hundred-year-old witch’s curse.

Gregory had spent five grueling years working as a plainclothes detective. In that time, he had managed to get married and promptly divorced. His ex-wife had walked out the door with a stinging parting shot: "You shouldn't even be allowed to have a cat. The poor thing would die of starvation and sheer loneliness because you're never home. You’re married to your job!" For a whole year now, Grisha had lived alone in his one-bedroom apartment. His rare pit stops at home were usually accompanied by a solitary drinking session in front of the television. The crushing silence was enough to make him want to howl—there wasn't a soul around to exchange a single word with. A couple of times, his buddies from the K-9 unit had offered him a puppy. That helped him keep his head straight for a day or two, but the reality was that a dog demands a serious commitment: daily walks, training, and constant attention. With a brutal schedule like his, raising a pet was simply out of the question. Tonight, he was running late again. He popped into a corner store to pick up some "liquid stress relief" and, as he approached the security gate at the entrance to his high-rise, he lingered to shoot the breeze with the guard. Over the five years he’d lived in the building, he had managed to become good friends with all four of the shift watchmen. They worked twenty-four-hour shifts, and Gregory would occasionally kill an evening keeping them company over a hot brew. Their conversation was abruptly cut short by a burst of cruel laughter, followed by a frantic, piercing feline screech. The detective bolted around the corner of the building toward the commotion. Three young boys, around thirteen years old, were aggressively trying to stuff a cat into a burlap sack. The animal was fighting for dear life and wailing down the whole street, managing to leave deep scratches on the hands and faces of its tormentors. "Hey! Drop it and back off!" Gregory’s sudden, booming police authority caught the punks completely off guard, and the cat managed to twist out of their grip. Realizing their fun was over and that they were about to get a serious thrashing from an angry cop, the kids scattered in all directions. The cat, however, had absolutely no intention of running away. Instead, she darted straight behind the detective’s legs, using him as a shield. Around the far corner of the store, the curious face of one of the runaways peeked out. They clearly weren't giving up; they were just biding their time until the cop left so they could finish what they started. "Well, what am I supposed to do with you now?" Gregory muttered. The question was purely rhetorical. There was no way Grisha was going to leave a helpless animal in a tight spot. Squatting down, he stroked the cat’s silky, midnight-black fur. Without a second thought, the unexpected guest climbed right into his arms and began to purr. "Listen to you... you're revving like a chainsaw. Alright then, Murka, let's go home. I'll ask around at the precinct tomorrow; maybe some family wants a little beauty like you." The guard stepped out of his booth to see what the fuss was about. When Gregory filled him in, the old man just shook his head in disgust. "Kids these days are brutal," he sighed. "Nothing is sacred to them anymore." Back at the apartment, while Gregory was boiling a pot of store-bought, perpetually stuck-together dumplings, Murka made herself right at home, inspecting every nook and cranny of the place. Apparently satisfied with her walkthrough, she trotted into the kitchen, curled up on the small sofa, and watched him cook with an air of quiet dignity. "Sorry, but I'm fresh out of actual cat food. You down for dumplings?" The young man glanced at the cat, who offered a soft chirp in response. "Alright, how many?" Imagine his shock when she gave exactly two distinct, demanding meows. "Two it is, then," Gregory muttered, trying to brush off the sheer absurdity of his own mind. Look at you. You’re so lonely you’ve started negotiating dinner with a cat... And she’s actually talking back. That's step one to a psych ward... While the two dumplings were cooling on a small saucer, he set up his makeshift dinner table in front of the TV. He placed the cat's dish on the floor and went into the living room. He poured his first shot of vodka and instantly felt eyes boring into his back. The cat was sitting perfectly upright in the hallway, staring at him intently. "What? Done already?" He walked back to the kitchen, only to find her food completely untouched. "Oh, I get it. You want some company? Fine, let's go." He picked up the saucer and carried it into the living room. The cat followed right on his heels and leaped onto the armchair directly next to his table. Left with no choice, Grisha placed her treat right on the edge of the tabletop. Murka let out a grateful rumble and began to delicately scarf down the meal. "Well, look at you, Miss High-and-Mighty," the detective laughed. "Too refined to eat off the floor, are we?" And so, they spent the evening together. Murka curled into a plush ball and fell asleep in the armchair, while Gregory slowly drifted off in front of the humming TV screen. The next morning, he woke up to his alarm—strangely enough, tucked safely into his own bed. He couldn't for the life of him remember crawling in there. Another odd thing: the living room table was completely cleared. He walked into the kitchen and found the dishes washed, dried, and neatly put away in the cabinets. Surely he hadn't drunk enough to blackout over a little morning tidying. Suddenly, a thud came from the window. Murka had climbed onto the windowsill from the outside—thankfully, it was the ground floor—and squeezed through the open pane. "Morning, gorgeous. Sorry, I didn't think to set up a litter box for you yesterday. I see you figured out how to use the great outdoors on your own," he murmured, stroking the fluffy runaway. I'll leave the window ajar and ask the security guard to keep an eye out, the detective thought as he got ready for work. He can see my windows perfectly from his booth; I'm sure he won't mind. The workday flew by, but not once did Gregory bring himself to offer the cat to anyone at the station. He couldn't quite put his finger on what was holding him back. Instead, he kept finding perks to her behavior. She wasn't a picky eater—she ate whatever he cooked. House-training wasn't an issue since she preferred the outdoors. Plus, he finally had someone to "talk to," even if it felt like a one-way street. Though, after yesterday's dumpling negotiation, he was beginning to doubt it was entirely one-sided. Lost in these thoughts, a genuine smile crept onto his face as he unlocked his apartment door that evening. In the living room, a sleepy Murka was stretching her paws and arching her back in the armchair. She hopped down and slinked with a graceful, leisurely stride after Grisha into the kitchen. "Tonight, we're having a proper dinner," he said, unpacking his groceries. "Do you like beef stew? I can tell by your eyes that you do. Let’s get this meat simmering, boil some potatoes, and whip up a quick salad." The host bustled around the kitchen like clockwork, accompanied by the cat's approving purrs. It was uncanny, as if she understood every single word but was simply choosing not to speak. His spirits lifted, and he found himself humming a tune over the sizzling pots. They dined in the living room again, right in front of the television. A deep bowl filled to the brim with excellent stew sat elegantly on the edge of the table. The armchair with the cat was pulled up closer to the table for the comfort of his black companion. Gregory genuinely enjoyed her presence. For the first time in ages, he didn't feel the urge to drink himself into oblivion just to forget the day. He told Murka all about his case files, and she listened, purring back in perfect agreement. Having eaten his fill, he didn't even notice himself nodding off to the rhythmic, soothing hum of the cat. When the alarm buzzed the next morning, Grisha was baffled by yet another total lapse in memory. He had woken up in his bed again, with absolutely no recollection of clearing the table or doing the dishes. It was truly bizarre, considering he hadn't touched a single drop of alcohol the night before. Was his mind starting to fail him? Should he see a doctor? But what would he even say? I fall asleep and go full-on sleepwalker mode? I wander around the apartment like a zombie doing chores and then forget about it? The doctor would either laugh it off or write him a quick referral to the psych ward. Oh well. "We'll see how the cookie crumbles," he muttered to himself. Another day at the precinct zipped by. That evening, the detective rushed home as if he were heading out on a hot date. My little Murka is sitting there all alone, missing me. He couldn't wipe the grin off his face—someone was finally waiting for him; he wasn't alone anymore. The security guard at the gate flagged him down as he drove in: "Hey, Grisha. I was keeping an eye on your windows today, and something funky is going on. A couple of times, that black cat of yours hopped out of the window and came back. But later this evening, the lights were on inside and I saw a shadow moving around, like someone was pacing the floor. They definitely didn't climb through the windows, though. You might want to check your locks just in case." A sharp pang of professional anxiety struck his chest. Who would break into a cop's apartment? Maybe those punks from the other day decided to track him down and steal the cat back? No, that was preposterous. Bursting into the apartment, he noted that the locks were perfectly intact and the key turned smoothly—no signs of forced entry whatsoever. "Murka! Murka, where are you?" he called out anxiously from the doorway. A questioning meow echoed from the living room, and a surprised cat came trotting out into the hallway. He scooped her up, gently running his hands over her fluff to make sure she was completely unharmed. "Are you okay? Did you get scared? Who was here? Did anyone hurt you?" The questions poured out of him like a broken dam. "Man, if only you were human, you could actually tell me. Look at me, interrogating a cat. Don't worry, girl, I've got your back." Still cradling the cat, he kicked off his shoes and inspected the apartment. Nobody was there. However, the place was absolutely spotless. The floors were freshly mopped, the dust was wiped clean, and even his laundry was neatly folded. More weirdness. If it was burglars, nothing was missing. And what kind of thief meticulously deep-cleans the house they're trying to rob? It didn't add up. He racked his brain, turning the puzzle over and over from every angle. Coming up empty, he finally just shrugged it off. Everything was fine, so why borrow trouble? Beside, the guard could have easily mistaken the windows in the dark. Stranger things have happened on the night shift. They spent the evening just like the last one, lounging in front of the TV and indulging in treats. Murka moved from her armchair onto Gregory’s lap, purring happily as she soaked up the affection. "Aw, Murishka, you’re such a sweet, gentle girl. Honestly, if you knew how to do the laundry, I’d marry you on the spot," the guy teased, scratching her behind the ear. That morning, Grisha woke up right before his alarm. Something had jolted him awake: a strange, distinctive noise coming from the kitchen, like the clinking of porcelain and silverware. Could it be those uninvited guests back for round two? Gripping his service weapon, he crept cautiously into the hallway. The kitchen door stood open, and there was absolutely an intruder inside. Treading silently on his bare feet, he neared the doorway and abruptly whipped his pistol around, aiming straight at the target... Hustling by the stove was a stunning young woman. Long, ink-black hair cascaded down her back in soft, flowing waves. She was wearing HIS favorite t-shirt, which draped down to the middle of her thighs like an oversized tunic. She spun around sharply at the click of the gun, locking her large, vibrant green eyes onto his. "You’re a strange one, Grisha. Promised to marry me last night, and today you're ready to blow my brains out..." "W... who are you?" Gregory stammered, his hands freezing on the grip. "What do you mean, who? I'm your Murka. That is what you called me, right? Murka. Murishka." "B... but you're a human..." "Keen observation," the girl said with a warm, teasing smile. "Thanks to you, I’m human again. Now, please stop pointing that gun at me. It’s terribly rude, to say the least." The detective slowly holstered his weapon and stepped into the kitchen, his brain trying to process the scene. The girl smoothly poured him a mug of hot tea, set a plate of fried eggs and sausage in front of him, and sat down opposite him to share her tale. Once upon a time, Mlada lived in a large historic village and was courted by a prominent local bachelor. He was a handsome, dashing young man, but the maiden simply didn't fancy him; her heart remained completely cold. As it turned out, the boy's grandmother was a powerful witch. Many folks in the village secretly visited the old crone for love potions, hexes, and other dark arts. When she found out about her grandson’s broken heart, she flew into a vengeful rage at Mlada. She cast a cruel curse upon her: to roam the earth in a beastly skin until someone treated her with genuine human kindness and grew truly attached to her very soul. And so, she spent nearly two centuries trapped in a cat’s coat, passed from one cruel owner to another, until Gregory came along and began treating her like family—like a real human being. "So, I guess that makes you my Prince Charming, and I'm your Frog Princess," Mlada concluded with a grin. "Fair enough," Gregory replied with a bewildered chuckle. "Except that princess caught an arrow in the fairytale, and you almost caught a 9mm bullet." One thing led to another, and Mlada gently reminded him of his midnight marriage proposal. Grisha, looking at her, realized he was absolutely over the moon. The girl was gorgeous, she had a wicked sense of humor, and those green eyes were the kind a man could happily drown in for the rest of his life. Using his police connections and data channels, Gregory quickly pulled some strings to get her a fresh set of ID papers, and before long, they officially filed their wedding paperwork at the registry office. And that's how they live now—completely in sync. She manages their cozy home and waits for him every evening, while he proudly serves on the force, counting down the minutes until he can rush back to his beloved Murka. This story was told to me by the security guard who sits in the booth at the entrance to my high-rise apartment building. He finished it with a thoughtful smile and these words: "That’s just how life goes, kid. Saving someone else from a disaster might just turn your entire world upside down for the better." The End